


Hands of a Lover

by cathcacen



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, jon snow x sansa stark - Freeform, jon x sansa - Freeform, jonsa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-21 06:19:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13734933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cathcacen/pseuds/cathcacen
Summary: Anon prompt fill: Sansa and Jon hold hands a lot, it starts off as fairly innocent because Jon has really warm hands but soon things get more charged.





	Hands of a Lover

**The first time it happens, they’re seated at the Great Hall, a world and their bannermen before them in the war for dawn. Littlefinger sits with his men of the Vale, and she knows it takes every ounce of restraint for Jon to hold his tongue as the man speaks of this and of that. If the tense grip of his hand beneath the table is anything to go by, anyway.**

**She hadn’t meant to hold on – she had only meant to lay her own cool palm upon his fingers, to remind him that the game of politics is her forte and that he must guard his temper as King in the North. She doesn’t remember him being as hot-headed in the before, but she supposes it makes sense, considering his brief walk among the dead.**

**_You never come back the same._ **

His hand is rough and calloused, but so is hers. She relishes in the warmth of his palm, so very much like Father’s. It reminds her of happier Winterfell days, when Father had held his little lady’s hand for long walks to town, and when he’d taught her how to dance. Robb’s hands had never been as rough – she never had the chance to know his hands as an adult man. As King in the North.

She thinks they might have felt like Jon’s and Father’s.

It’s only when the lords and knights have excused themselves that she realises she’s still holding onto Jon’s hand. He glances aside at her, that familiar half-smile warming his features beneath the hard lines of his face.

“If you’d held on harder, I might have lost all my fingers.”

She lets out a chuckle, withdrawing. “Somebody had to make sure you didn’t lunge at Littlefinger.”

“Aye, and that’d be you, is it?” Jon’s eyes gleam with unspoken amusement. “I know you’re stronger than you look, but I daresay I’d manage break free.”

She meets his eyes. “Would you? Break free of me?”

His smile deepens. “Never.”

The second time it happens, they’re called to dance at the feast of a wedding. It’s madness, she knows, to marry in such times – but if she really thinks about it, she supposes there really is no time but the present to indulge. It’s a small ceremony, one between a lord’s lesser son and his Riverlands lady, but there’s no want for joy and laughter.

She’s had little more than two cups of sweet wine, perhaps one of the last casks from their glorious golden summer. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she finds amusement in the thought that Cersei might have to survive the long winter without her preferred refreshment. It’s a petty thought, but one she’s happy to entertain.

_She wasn’t a queen to be loved. She was one to be feared._

Jon takes her hand to lead her to the floor. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Littlefinger smirk, and perhaps no one else might have noticed the slight tremour coursing along her spine, but Jon is most certainly aware. It’s barely perceptible, a gesture so minute she might have missed it herself, but his hand tightens about her own, his own thick fingers squeezing, and then gently loosening their grip. He smiles at her, and she nods.

It’s a simple dance he brings her through, one she remembers from her very first feast in the very same hall. It had been Robb’s name day, and one to celebrate his very first hunt. She remembers Jon sitting sullen in the corner, no doubt having suffered yet another humiliation at the hands of her own dear mother. Then, she hadn’t understood. Then, she’d had none of the life experiences of a Stark in King’s Landing, a traitor’s daughter, and none of her life as a Stone.

How the world has changed.

That night, when all the dancing and laughter has dissipated, he walks her back to her chambers. The newlyweds have long since departed, and lovers have slipped into their nooks within the keep, soft giggles slowing to gentle, stolen kisses.

“It was a good night, wasn’t it?” He glances down at her hand, that same small smile lingering, always, at the corner of his lips. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

She nods, suddenly very aware of the warmth about them both. “It was good for the morale of your men, if nothing else.” His hand tightens about her own, and she can’t help but to look up, to meet his dark gaze. “But yes. I enjoyed myself.”

She can’t remember the last time she’s felt this safe and happy.

“Good.” Jon brings her hand to his lips, and she doesn’t know why, but her body trembles as he gently, almost reverently, removes her glove, and afterwards, kisses her knuckles. “Sleep well, Sansa.”

It’s weeks later when he finds her at the Godswood, soft winds bringing the snow to swirl about them. She glances up as he approaches, and thinks she sees a flash of something like yearning in his eyes.

She doesn’t ask, and he doesn’t tell. Instead, he reaches out to her, and she takes his hands – both of them, in her own. “Are your chests packed for the South?”

He manages a pained smile. “You are angry with me.”

“A little, but that doesn’t mean you’ll stay.”

“No.” Jon agrees a little too quickly, but she knows his mind has been made up. “I’ll come back as soon as I can. I promise.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” She warns.

Once, perhaps, those words might have frozen a man solid. But it’s Jon, and she knows he’ll take it in the way only Jon can.

He only smiles. “I’ll come back as soon as I can.” He repeats the words slowly, his voice sterner, and firmer than before. “I _promise_.”

She lets out a breath. It’s cold outside, but Jon’s hands, as before, are warm. He kisses her knuckles. And then the inside of her palm. And then her wrist. And finally, as if to seal his promise, he kisses her lips. Gently, at first, then deeper.

It feels like an eternity before they part, hands intertwined. He tugs the knot of fingers to his chest, where his heart rests. Where she might feel the steady beat of it, were it not for his armour.

“Wait here,” He whispers. “Stay safe.”

She nods. “Come home.”


End file.
